My Wife Threw Me into a Pit of Leeches for Her Assistant Chapter 08

My Wife Threw Me into a Pit of Leeches for Her Assistant Chapter 08 The Pale Pink Scars

Three months later, in Valdoria, by the shores of Lake Veronne, I stood in the cemetery, facing three headstones-one for my parents, and one for my son, the child who never even got the chance to have a name.

The small stone marker bore only the words “Son of the Brooks Family.”

A thin layer of snow lay across the stone.

I crouched down and brushed the snow away.

My fingers were no longer the skeletal things they’d been a year ago.

The doctors in Valdoria had spent two months doing skin grafts, repairing damaged blood vessels, and slowly stitching up the wounds the leeches had chewed open..

Now those holes had faded into pale pink scars, covering my body like a tattoo I could never

take off.

“Chester.” Grandpa’s voice came from behind me. “It’s snowing. Come on, let’s head back.”

I didn’t move.

“When your father cut ties with me,” Grandpa said, leaning on his cane as he shuffled over. His voice was rough. “I was so angry that I swore I’d never have anything to do with him or his family again. Later I heard he married your mother, had you, and that the two of them were struggling. I thought about going to find him, but I was too damn proud to do it.”

I turned to look at him. He stood there in the snow, his eyes red-rimmed.

“By the time I finally swallowed my pride and decided to go find him, they were already gone.”

“Grandpa.”

“My biggest regret in life is that I was so heartless when I cut ties with them back then.” He wiped a hand across his face. “Just let me stick around a few more years. Let me watch over you. Let me make it up to you.”

I took his hand. “I’ll be here with you, Grandpa.”

Five years later, I stood on the sixty-eighth floor of the Brooks Group headquarters, looking out through the floor-to-ceiling windows at the city below.

The cuff of my custom suit left part of my wrist exposed, pale pink scars covering the skin.

That was the one spot I could never fully hide.

But I didn’t care anymore.
Over those five years, I’d turned Grandpa’s company into a publicly traded multinational corporation, tripling its market value.

The financial magazines dubbed me “the youngest king of business.” None of them knew I’d once been thrown into a pit of leeches, or that rats had robbed me of my manhood.

My secretary knocked and stepped inside. “Mr. Brooks, we have news about the Wilde family.”

I turned around.

“Feodora and Emerson are dead.”

I took the file and opened it.

After Feodora and Emerson were sent to the underground black market, they were tortured until they were barely recognizable.

Later, they escaped in the chaos and disappeared into a small, obscure country overseas.

The money they’d taken with them didn’t last long.

Emerson became addicted to gambling and gambled away their last property.

Feodora started selling her jewelry, then her bags, then finally even her clothes.

In the second year, debt collectors cornered them in their rented apartment.

Feodora had two ribs broken, and Emerson had one ear cut off.

They fled to the border and tried to cross illegally, but they were caught and sent to an illegal sweatshop, where they were forced to work for two years.

In the third year, the Wilde family collapsed completely.

Feodora’s grandfather died in prison, while her mother lost her mind and was sent to a psychiatric hospital.

The Wilde family’s properties were auctioned off, their assets liquidated, and every relative cut ties with them.

In the fourth year, Emerson got hooked on drugs.

He forced Feodora to sell her body for cash. When she refused, he beat her.

He beat her until she was black and blue, until she was sobbing and begging him to stop.

Eventually, she gave in and started selling herself. Every dollar she earned went straight to funding Emerson’s drug habit.

In the fifth year, Emerson’s drug addiction took over. He pinned Feodora to the floor and started choking her.

She fought desperately, her hand finding a pair of scissors. She drove them into his stomach.

Emerson collapsed, blood seeping through his fingers.

Feodora froze for a few seconds, then turned and ran.

Emerson was still alive. He crawled after her, dragging himself for three blocks before he bled out and collapsed beside a pile of trash.

Someone called the cops. When they got there, Emerson was still screaming Feodora’s name.

The police caught Feodora hiding in an abandoned construction shack.

She was skin and bones. Half her hair had turned white, and her eyes were sunken deep into

their sockets.

The cops asked if she was Feodora Wilde. She nodded, then asked, “Is Emerson dead?”

“He’s dead.”

She started laughing and crying at the same time.

All she kept saying was, “I’m sorry, Chester. I’m so sorry.”

I closed the file and handed it to my secretary. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

I nodded and walked over to the window, staring at the mountains in the distance.

Five years ago, I’d buried my parents and my son in a cemetery on that mountain.

I went back every year on the anniversary of their deaths.

“Mr. Brooks, one more thing.” The secretary handed me an envelope. “Feodora wrote this before she died.”

I opened it. Inside was a single line: “Chester, I’m sorry for everything I did to you in this life. In

the next, I’ll spend my whole life making it up to you.”

I read it for three seconds, folded the letter back up, and slipped it into the envelope.

“Burn it.”